How, in so many ways, I killed Vicaria

It was the knife on monday. They say it was harsh, I say it was practical. Not as Tuesday. The rope took some minutes, the neck didn't break. Not as in the movies. The pills took even longer. Wednesday. I couldn't try anything else that day; you know that. For Thursday I had the car show planned, and the fire was beautiful. On Friday I took her to the Zoo, and she loved the tigers. Saturday night was the day for party, with the mob, and those so many holes made me feel sorry for her.

On Sunday I rested, on Sunday I healed her memory, for I loved and mourned for her. On Sunday I wrote this poem, I read it to her - and she loved it.

War

It was not the smell of death that shocked me, even though I could feel it, but the impossibible silence of the scene. It could have been the first bullet that made me deaf, but, still, all those things I saw seemed to me as images from a dream, nothing more than symbols, the writings of God in the walls of my vision, telling me of things forbidden, of things that should not be, and maybe are not, but were there, in front me, defying all I knew as true and trustworthy, the sacred and miraculous state of the immovable, the Universe, the mind of God, made flesh and, now, unmade.

Soft Construction with Boiled Beans (Premonition of Civil War), 1936
Salvador Dali